A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
Sherla was still shaking her head, this time in disbelief, three hours later when the three women boarded the special train assigned to convey relatives of the dead to the site. Frau Buchner had shown nothing but tearful gratitude for what Sherla had been certain should have been perceived as unwelcome busybody behavior. Certainly, no one in Sherla OR Sherlock's prior experience would have so readily welcomed the support of near strangers at a time such as this. Unable to resist any longer, Sherla had pulled Irene aside once they had arrived at the train station, and asked why the woman was so willing to permit Irene to take charge as she had. "I told you earlier, my dear, that she was not a woman of independent mind. Her husband is her whole world because he tells her what to do and when to do it. I merely stepped into that role and she was pleased to permit me for it relieved her of the responsibility." "But you are a stranger to her. Doesn't she feel that might be dangerous? You could be a thief or worse. I do not understand her thinking in this at all," an increasingly frustrated Sherla had asked. "There is a fundamental difference between men and women, Sherla, that your past experiences would not have revealed to you. Perhaps I have some insight into that since I am a woman who has been forced to function in a man's world - sometimes on their terms. Men are problem solvers. Their self-image, and ultimately their pride, derives from their ability to overcome the obstacles of life from their own resources and abilities. To seek or even accept aid implies a failure to solve their own problems themselves." "Women, on the other hand, do not face this same imperative. Whether this is merely cultural or inherent in our biology I do not know. It may be a holdover from the times when men went out to hunt and women stayed together in the village. But women can give and receive aid with no loss of pride, and so we do." Irene smiled, took Sherla's arm in hers, and led her back toward the spot where Katrina and Frau Buchner waited for the boarding call. Then she put her mouth to Sherla's ear. "Did you not come to me, dear?" She whispered, "and did I not offer my help before I knew or believed the truth about you?" That conversation and what it implied about the feminine sex had bothered Sherla ever since they had boarded the train and taken their compartments. It bespoke a spirit of giving and of nobility that would have shamed most men. It was a perplexing problem, and one she would have to work on for some time to come. Sighing, she reached into the small bag she had carried on to the train with her, and pulled out her embroidery sampler. Perhaps this time, she wouldn't grace the white linen with nearly so much of her blood. ~--------------~ They stopped at a village a few miles short of the site of the derailment, for nightfall came quickly in the mountains, and the guards did not want to be there in the open when darkness and the wolves arrived. Several women had argued with this decision, wanting to press on and save what might be left of their husbands. Sherla resisted the urge to tell the women to face reality for it was clear to her that anyone who might have survived the accident had been forced to face a day and two nights in the wilderness. There would be no survivors. At least, none who had survived on their own. Dinner that evening was simple, hearty, country fare. Potatoes and other root cellar vegetables in a cheese sauce, served with lamb. It was quite tasty, but very few of the women had any appetite as they all thought about the grizzly task that lay before them the following day. Except Sherla, who initially ate with great relish until Irene kicked her beneath the table. A quick shake of her head and a pointed look at the other women told Sherla she needed to behave more circumspectly, which was sad. The casserole WAS delicious and Sherla had been starved after the long day and trip on the train. "Eat like a lady in public, Sherla," Irene hissed into her companion's ear, "Or I shall not permit Katrina to loosen your stays until bedtime until we return home!" That thought effectively spoiled Sherla's appetite for the remainder of the meal. Things improved little when it came time to retire for the night. The quaint country inn was ill suited to such a crowd for it was normally only a refreshment stop and did not under ordinary circumstances take in so many overnight guests. Filled quite literally to its aged rafters, the inn housed the many women as best as could be done given the circumstances. Irene, Frau Buchner, Sherla and Katrina would be sharing a small, one bed- room - Irene and the Frau sharing the bed, Sherla and Katrina bundling on the floor. "It's like a house-party," Irene had said when Sherla had grumbled about sleeping on the floor like a child. "Consider it one of the lessons you should have learned as a young girl, dear." Sherla thought about responding vulgarly, but the arrival of Frau Buchner precluded that. *At least I am still sleeping with Katrina,* she thought by way of making do with what she had. Except that it did not turn out quite the way she envisioned when they were finally all snuggled down into the heavy sleeping quilts the inn provided against the cold. "Mais non, Ma'amselle Cherie," Katrina had hissed when Sherla had teasingly run a single sharp nail down her lover's ribs. "We must not! Madame la Docteur's wife is up there with Madame Irene and she will hear us." Aroused as she always was when her body was in close contact with Katrina, Sherla hissed back, "So? Then we will be quiet." "You?! Quiet?" Katrina hissed sarcastically. "Hah! You squeal, most sweetly to be sure, but like the baby pig when you reach your satisfaction. Non, we cannot chance it. You must make the trip to the train wreck tomorrow, and may not be able to if Madame La Docteur's wife is upset with you or believes you to be immoral. Now, roll over and go to sleep!" "But. . ." Sherla was feeling the need. She did roll over, but almost immediately began slowly stroking herself below the covers, trying to "solve" her problem quietly. Katrina felt the subtle movement of arm and hip, correctly guessing its cause. Leaning close, Katrina brought her hand down sharply on Sherla's shapely bottom, and sternly whispered in her lover's ear, "Cherie, you cannot do this. I already told you that you make too much noise when you reach the goal toward which you strive, no matter how quiet you are right now." But the demand of her body was already too intense, too strong, and was made stronger still by the heat on her spanked buttock. Sherla could not stop. "But I must! Oh, Katrina, I burn!" "Non, you must not," Katrina hissed, snaking her hands around Sherla to capture the girl's hands and hold them still. Katrina missed, and Sherla whirled out of her grasp within the covers, turning to face her lover and smother her face in kisses no less desperate for their eerie silence. "Oooo, but Katrina, I need you. I'll even let you spank me again, if that is what it takes for you to help me." Sherla whispered when her mouth wasn't otherwise occupied with Katrina's lips. Katrina reached again for Sherla's hands, this time successfully, and forced both wrists behind the petite mademoiselle's back. That goal accomplished, she sought to still Sherla's shuddering body by laying upon her lover, but to no avail. Sherla, delighted with the press of Katrina's lovely feminine body upon her own, squirmed ever more vigorously under the maid's weight, blindly seeking the stimulation her body demanded. Perhaps it was the sense of having her hands bound behind her - and what did that say about those ideas that Irene had once so blithely hinted at? - but in a few minutes it was obvious from her panting breaths that Sherla would make noise, regardless of the price to be paid later. Katrina did what she could, capturing Sherla's mouth in her own and swallowing the sound that emerged. A few muffled cries escaped, more like the distant whimper of a kitten than the howls that so often accompanied Sherla's successes, but it could not be helped. Eventually Sherla relaxed, limp and again breathing more naturally. When she was sure there would not be a repeat encounter, Katrina relaxed as well, letting go of the arms of her lover and friend. "What was that?" Frau Buchner's drowsy voice called from the darkness above them. Katrina closed her eyes in resignation, but Sherla's wits saved them. "Your pardon, Frau Buchner. I am afraid I had a bad dream and Katrina had to wake me." "Oui, Madame," Katrina put in, "She was struggling ever so hard and I am afraid I had to become rather forceful with her." "I knew bringing impressionable young women along on such a sad affair would be a mistake." the older woman half spoke, half muttered. "I shall be all right now, Frau Buchner. Please forgive me for waking you." Frau Buchner mumbled something vaguely affirmative and rolled over in the bed. Both girls listened silently in the dark, wondering if they had compromised their standing with Frau Buchner, but all they heard was a purring snore that indicated she had obliviously fallen back to sleep. "Now be quiet!" Katrina hissed. "Yes, my love," Sherla purred in her ear, then let just a hint of giggle into her soft tones as she said, "Next time, I get to hold your arms, even if I have to find some rope to do it," she promised before adding, "Do YOU like getting spanked, Katrina- dear?" "Perhaps," Katrina said as she rolled over, "And then again, perhaps not. We will have to see, won't we? That is, if you are able to carry out your so very brave boast, *little* one." Sherla's mouth went wide, and then curled into a feline smile of her own. They would see, and very soon. VERY soon. In the morning, Irene smirked at the still cautious pair after Frau Buchner had left the three of them alone. "You never told me you were bothered with nightmares, Sherla. From the sounds you made, that . . . dream must have been rather. . . intense." Then she walked off after Frau Buchner, leaving the two girls speechless in her wake. ~-------------~ The scene of the train wreck should not have belonged to the earth, but rather to some especially deep, uncharted region of hell. Very little remained of what had been a well appointed and luxurious conveyance: some metal frames, a few cast iron heat stoves lying precariously on their sides, shards of broken window glass that had fallen to the ground and shattered, and the heavy iron wheels that had once carried the massive train cars. Everything not made of metal . . . or bone, had been consumed in the hellish fires that had followed the derailment. Some sets of the wheels had actually ridden up onto the wheels of the car ahead of them, an indication, Sherla thought, of just how quickly and suddenly the train had been forced to a stop. The locomotive itself was completely off the tracks and was laying on its side, its long dimension nearly perpendicular to the tracks as the momentum of the cars behind it had pushed its back end forward before stopping. The huge water tank had been breeched by the by the explosion of the boiler. Melted snow and the remnants of locomotive's water supply had pooled to form a small ice-lake about its burnt and scorched metal body. Sherla had taken this all in, along with the appalling stench of other things burnt - metal, wood, fabric, but most horrifically, human flesh. The fire must have been hellishly hot for the snow and ice had melted for as much as ten feet on either side of the track. Then she saw her first . . . remains. Actually, what she saw first was but a skull - a child in so far as she could tell for the blackened shell of bone was very small. Then Sherla saw another charred skeleton, lying over the torso of the first. A flash of gold caught Sherla's eye, and she realized it was all that remained of some piece of jewelry. Moving closer, she saw the dim sparkle of precious gems peaking out from the misshapen clump of gold. It had once been an expensive item, Sherla mused, a brooch, perhaps, and that meant that this was a Mother and a child, and that the Mother had tried to save her child with her own body. Tears suddenly burned at Sherla's eyes and she spun away from the frightful scene, her hands clutching fiercely at the unusually large reticule she'd brought with her from the inn. A firm yet gentle hand gripped her shoulder, making her jump and spin, ready to protect herself. "Easy, Sherla," Irene said softly. "Oh, god, Irene," Sherla hissed out on a half sob as she fell into the startled older woman's arms. Then she saw what Sherla had seen, and understood. She held the girl for several minutes, letting her weep. When she felt the tide beginning to wane, she took Sherla by the shoulders and held her away so that their eyes could meet. "What you just saw is a terrible thing, my love, but it is far more than merely terrible if someone did this intentionally. That is what we feared and what we have come here to ascertain. I have seen and spoken with the man in charge of the investigation and he has already decided that this was all simply a tragic accident. His mind is made up and he is merely going through the motions of an investigation. You are the only hope that child and his mother have for justice. YOU must find the truth. I will help, of course, but I have never dealt with anything of this scale before. I am afraid I am not even certain where to begin." For more long seconds, Sherla could only stare blankly at Irene, and then her face cleared, the tears dried and her visage hardened. "Irene?" Sherla said in a cold, hard voice. "I need to know what the inspectors have found. I have to know what they base their conclusion on." Irene considered that, looked at Sherla, and seemed to consider yet again. "There might be a way, but it all depends on you charming the man in charge." "Me??!?" Sherla all but squeaked. "Remember what I told you about Doctor Buchner. You are a young, beautiful woman, my dear. You must charm him, make him want to bask in the glow of your girlish admiration for his brilliance as an investigator." "And how do I do that?" Sherla hissed back at her pseudo- guardian. A wicked grin lit Irene's lovely face. "Recall your lessons in flirting, my dear? Coo at him, flatter him, ask him questions with wide amazed eyes, compare him with awe in your voice to that Englishman you've read about in the daily newspapers - what was his name? Oh yes - Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Think sweet and fluffy, Sherla-love." "And you think that will work??" "When a beautiful girl like you tells a man he is Saint George, he is going to look first for his armor and then seek out a suitable dragon to slay for her. Trust me." "Why can't you do it?" "Because I am not the most beautiful woman here, sweet, and because I have already established myself as that most frightening of creatures to French men such as him - the intelligent woman." "Oh, so I am to be not very intelligent?" Sherla demanded with some ire. "If you wish your information, my sweet. Do you?" Sherla had to think about that for a moment, but the answer was clear. She nodded. "Very well. Put a sugar-sweet smile on those luscious lips and vacuous look on that beautiful face. I will be with you, but you must be the one to flatter him shamelessly until he reveals the information you wish to know." Sherla did her best, trying to mimic the smile Katrina used when she was trying to get around Sherla in some manner, and followed Irene toward the head of the inspection team. He was a short man, beginning to go to fat, and perhaps in his middle forties. The brim of his hat was beginning to fray and his mustache still bore evidence of the soup he'd eaten for lunch. As Sherla and Irene approached the small camp area the inspectors had set up as an on-scene headquarters, he was talking at one of his subordinates when he saw the two women approaching. "Monsieur," Irene said graciously, allow me to introduce my niece, Joan. She has been begging me to introduce you since I told her we had spoken." Sherla offered her hand, anticipating him shaking it and was momentarily surprised with the inspector bowed over her hand to kiss it. A sharp look from Irene had her back in character before he had straightened. "Oooo, Monsieur le Directore, you are so gallant. I am in awe of what you are doing. What have you discovered, sir. . that is, if you can explain it to someone such as I." She said, fluttering her voice and her lashes. *Katrina said that you cannot over do this type of thing with a man. I only pray she is right.* "I am only a lowly chief inspector, Mademoiselle, But of course I would be very pleased to show you the fruits of our investigation. However, a great deal of what we have uncovered is very technical. You must not be disappointed if you do not comprehend every small detail." Sherla gave a delighted noise to mask the growl in her mind at his paternalistic condescension. Taking the arm the Frenchman offered, she hung upon it shamelessly as he led her to the remnants of what had once been a luxury sleeper car. *At least it is not the one with the mother and child,* Sherla thought with relief. *I don't know if I could have looked upon that scene without bursting into tears again.* Then, she sternly put that image out of her mind and concentrated on the chief inspector. They stopped near the approximate center of the car, where he pointed to a steel heating stove resting precariously on a bit of flooring. The floor was badly charred on both sides of stove which had its feeder door hanging on only one hinge and a long crack from the fire box to the flue. "As you can see, Mademoiselle Joan, this stove was damaged when the train crashed which is what caused the fire. The red hot coals escaped and set all of the cloth and wood afire, which spread so quickly, none of the sleeping passengers could escape." "Oh, that is so sad, Monsieur le Directore, but so very clever of you see that so clearly," Sherla cooed as she hugged his arm with what she hoped was a frightened shiver when something caught her eye. "Oh look at the glass on the ground. The windows?" "Oui, Mademoiselle. Very good. Very observant. We shall make a detective of you yet. The glass could not burn so it fell to the ground and broke when the frames were consumed by the hungry flames." "It breaks so many different ways," she said in a wondering voiced as she toed some thin, sharp shards near some broader, larger pieces." "Oui. It depends on how it falls, I suspect," the inspector said with pompous indifference. "Is that all Mademoiselle wanted to see?" Sherla made a pout. "Could you please show me what caused the train to leave the tracks like this?" "All right, but then, sadly, I must return to my men." He lead her to the head of the train. Along the way, Sherla pointed out an area on the car that would have been beneath the front exit. "How odd to see something so white when everything else is burnt black," she said. Irene's back went instantly stiff, telling Sherla she was on dangerous ground. Fortunately, the inspector did not rise to her faux pas. "We noticed that, too, Mademoiselle. Apparently the burning wood was blown away by the wind or some such thing before the fire could blacken those spots. There are a few others just like it on other cars." Sherla only swallowed hard against an urge to ask more pointed questions and allowed the man to lead her to the locomotive. He showed her the badly bend and broken tracks with a flourish. "And so, when the rails buckled, the locomotive left the tracks." Bending over to look at the jagged edge of the tracks, Sherla exclaimed, "The broken ends are so very shiny, Monsieur le Directore." Growing more disinterested by the moment, the inspector scarcely spared a glance at the damaged track. "Iron does that when it bends and breaks, Mademoiselle. It is a common enough effect. Now, if you ladies will excuse me," he said, lifting his hat to them before heading back to the warmth of his camp. Sherla barely acknowledged the man's departure, her eyes fixed on the polished silver sheen on the broken track. "Sherla?" Irene whispered when the inspector was out of earshot. "Damn that thrice-cursed fool, Irene," Sherla hissed, tears running down her face. "He has clear evidence of murder on an inhuman scale and he won't see it, even when I tried to show him where to look. Moriarty sabotaged the tracks, then deliberately trapped every single passenger on that train by setting intense fires at every exit and shot those who tried to leave through the windows. That fiend canNOT be allowed to EVER do something like this again. He must NOT be permitted to live!" "You're sure?" Irene asked? Nodding, Sherla took out her handkerchief and wiped it vigorously across the damaged track. "I need your handkerchief, Irene, for another sample, but in answer to your question, yes, I am certain." She rose back to her feet, her face once again composed. "Perhaps it is just as well that buffoon of an inspector is an incompetent fool. As the head of this investigation, he'd be the one assigned to go after the murderer. That would only get more innocents killed for he would be laughably outmatched by Professor Moriarty." "Then there is no question in your mind?" Irene asked. "That all of . . . this. ." and Irene's gaze took in the entire train, "is your Moriarty's work?" "No question whatsoever," was the uncompromising answer. "I must go and examine the scene of the crime more carefully and collect evidence, but there is no doubt at all that this was a murder and that Moriarty is behind it." She turned away from Irene and began to stride down the train only to be brought up short as Irene grasped at Sherla's elbow. Her face a furious mask, Sherla spun to face Irene. "Don't forget you are Sherla and not Sherlock. Be careful of your behavior!" Irene hissed. Nodding, Sherla turned again, but this time, her head was down, and every once in a while, her shoulders heaved as if she were weeping again. She spent the rest of their stay wandering about the remains of the once-great train. Seemingly aimlessly, she would stop to weep harder, several times falling to her knees, her handkerchief in her hand before pushing herself up from the ground to continue her wanderings. The last time she stayed down until several of the workers rushed to her aid, and helped her to her shaking feet. Gently, they assisted her up onto one of the cars so that she could sit for a few moments. No one noticed her reach into her reticule to remove a pair of opera glasses.
